All in vain
by ThreeHundredStarsAbove
Summary: They were like earth and sky, fire and rain... Who could measure the depth of their love? (Series of poetry-inspired oneshots) !COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1: Dreams

_With sun's labor, fences like warmed brushwood_  
_Ring amongst the silence._  
_A kiss places itself on my forehead,_  
_Alone – without the help of lips..._

_Coming from a crumbled barn, rising to the sky,_  
_Are swallows' cries and laughter -_  
_Spring's light breath, swells the room's_  
_Faded curtains with a rustle._

_O God, whom sent fragrant lilac, to grow_  
_At my window on an dark hour,_  
_Forgive my untimely and unknowing death_  
_At my own tears' will!..._

- "In Vain" Bolesław Leśmian

* * *

He felt as if he would never breathe again. The dark sky hovered far above, seemingly beautiful, but almost empty, as his eyes refused to see the slight glimmer of stars; they shone brightly, and yet he was blind to their magnificence.

He lay on the grass, his white shirt damp from the midnight dew. Oblivious to all that surrounded him, he stared into the dark blue depth, thinking of another place, far away, feeling his heart tremble at the memory.

He could not forget her. Not today, not in a thousand years... not ever.

Simple, yet unique. Slight in body, and yet possessing a great spirit. Strong, righteous, passionate...

_Margaret_.

In the darkest hours of the night he would call her _his_. His to love and cherish, his to protect and keep safe at all times... _his _Margaret.

But with every rising of the sun, memories faded, becoming dreams, dissipating. The longing he carried in his heart was only then solidified, like steel being tempered a hundredfold.

Now, looking beyond what seemed a cloak of grim darkness, he whispered again, softly, and the wind carried his words away, scattering them between the branches of the trees above him:

"I will never forget you... _my _Margaret".

* * *

_**Disclaimer: I don't own 'North and South'. It's too well-written to be mine anyway :)**_


	2. Chapter 2: Thoughts

_Come walk with me;_

_We were not once so few_

_But Death has stolen our company_

_As sunshine steals the dew -_

_He took them one by one and we_

_Are left the only two;_

_So closer would my feelings twine_

_Because they have no stay, but thine..._

- 'Come walk with me', E. Bronte

* * *

She lay quietly with her eyes closed. Milton's rush and noise filtered through the walls around her, enriching the heavy silence with memories of the past two years; it comforted her as well as weighed down her spirit to remember events from before her parents' death.

Her mother was here, in Milton, sleeping a dreamless sleep from which she'd never wake again, not on this good earth. Soon her father will also be put to rest, but far from his family, in Oxford. And Frederick... Margaret couldn't help the single tear that fell down her pale cheek.

'_He probably shall never return to England_' she thought grimly. '_There's no reason for him to come back_ _now... but oh, how I wish we weren't separated by such a great distance...!_'

A sudden clatter of hooves on the cobblestones just in front of the house turned her thoughts back to Milton. The gray, dreary northern city she came to care about so much over the two years spent here. Almost every street bore some memory, great or small, happy or sad, and she imagined leaving her new home would be as hard and painful as abandoning the first one.

She gave a quiet sigh, and draped her Indian shawl tighter around her shoulders. There were people here that she didn't wish to leave behind...

Her vivid imagination conjured up an image she previously tried to abandon. It was too dear in its bittersweet colors, too precious to be forgotten – she knew that now.

Mr. Thornton. Tall, dark and proud, with all his unacceptable theories and disdainful words... Margaret thought about him often. After a while it occurred to her, that underneath that gloomy veil of outside looks there was a soul holding so much feeling, righteousness and passion, that at times when he forgot to keep up his appearance, it burned brightly within his eyes.

Those eyes she knew so well. Two sapphires- no, two pools of crystal clear water, incapable of deceit or intentionally hurting anyone. Strong and beautiful in their simplicity and yet showing the complex spirit within.

Yes, there was more to John Thornton than anyone could've guessed. More than a successful industrialist, a master, a brother, a son... and a would-be lover... a _husband_.

Margaret sat up, covering the pallor of her face with trembling hands. The shawl slid off her shoulders, but she didn't have the mind or the strength to pick it up.

How many times had she replayed the day of his proposal in her mind? She remembered every word with perfect clarity, every loving look with a painful knowledge...

...He hated her now. There was no other reasonable explanation for his constant absence in the Hale house. Margaret knew he's been having trouble with the factory, but then again, the death of her father should've made him come; it was expected.

The pale woman opened her eyes to the sight of an empty room, dark, despite the bright winter daylight outside. A thin smile appeared on her lips.

They were so different, and yet... incredibly alike.

Like fire and rain, earth and sky – two extremes which could never meet... But, just for a moment, Margaret wished to see them side by side, blending at the line of the never ending horizon.

The momentary wish passed as soon as it appeared, and she was once again her reasonable self, who could control her thoughts with ease.

_No. There was no reason for her to dwell on the past. She lied and he had no respect for her anymore. The feelings towards her he once _imagined _to possess, were gone. And that is that._

Margaret closed her eyes, settling once more on the sofa.

How could she know, that if she had turned and looked out of the window at that moment, she would've seen a tall, black-clad man, standing in the crowded street, the look of terrible torment and longing in his crystal blue eyes.

Yes. There was more to John Thornton that anyone could've guessed...

* * *

**_Disclaimer: I don't own 'North and South'. The book's too well-written to be mine anyway._**


	3. Chapter 3: Twisted fate

_Different directions our hands have stretched out to,  
In different worlds have our thoughts wandered,  
Our eyes different paths chose to look upon –  
Oh how, dear one, have we come to be so close?_

_We are like stars, differing in shape and size,  
Thrown onto an opposing path,  
Which the skies wish to shove away,  
Far from every hopeful shore._

_Eternal outcasts from the common world;  
Is it their loss or maybe a benefit,  
That their pain shall bind them together,  
And that they shall love – with hatred?_

_Adam Mickiewicz, 1827_

* * *

Restless and weary, Margaret kept mostly to herself as she wandered around the empty house. Memories peeked out of dark nooks and corners, taking her back to the days when her family was still with her. Now she was alone... more or less.

"Dear Margaret, I do wish that we leave this smoky, dusty place as soon as possible!" she heard aunt Shaw exclaim. She sat on the sofa with a truly disdainful look on her honest face. "There's nothing for you here anymore!"

"I have friends in Milton" Margaret said weakly, picking up a book from the closest stack. It was hard to part with her father's belongings, and most of all: books. She felt like a huge part of him had remained somewhere between the dusty, yellowed pages. Aunt Shaw would not understand.

"Friends!" it came out more of a snort than a proper word. "I cannot imagine what _friends_ you could make in a place such as this!"

Having no spirit for an argument, Margaret picked up another volume: Letters written in golden ink reflected the dim light of the candles, forming the title '_**The Republic**__, by Plato_'. Plato. Her father's favorite.

"Will you give all of this away?" aunt Shaw asked without interest, merely trying to keep up the conversation.

Margaret turned the book in her hands.

"No, I..."

And then an idea dawned on her.

'_Why shouldn't I do it_?' she thought to herself, tracing the golden letters with trembling fingers. '_Then again... it's the last thing I would want to give up... but he _was,_ after all, his first pupil..._'

"Margaret, dear...?"

The woman in question raised her eyes briefly. Aunt Shaw was looking at her, awaiting an answer to a question which Margaret didn't even remember. It didn't matter. What _did_ matter was the thin book in her hand, and the ink and paper which lay in her room upstairs. Maybe it could be done, but she had to be quick, before reason pushed the idea out of her mind.

"I shall be back in a moment" she breathed, already halfway to the staircase.

A faint echo of protest reached her ears, but she ignored it, hurriedly walking up the steps and all the while keeping a firm grip on the volume.

Upon reaching the refuge of her room, she closed the door quickly and collapsed onto the chair which stood by her small desk.

'_I am perfectly capable_' she tried to convince her reasonable self, as she prepared the quill and paper '_Perfectly capable of writing a letter to that man. I am good at it. I've written tons of correspondence in_ _the past..._'

Why then was it so hard to put even _one word_ on paper? What in the world hindered her?

Margaret let her mind wander for a moment.

Having seen all that he had, being rejected and – for all he knew – forgotten when another man appeared in her life, wasn't it only natural for him to turn his back at her? And did he? He had shown a deep kindness, but also spite, almost every time they crossed paths. She couldn't blame him for that. But neither could she, up until now, work up the courage to own up to her deceit and properly apologize for it. _Mr. Thornton had the right to know._

With that thought in mind, Margaret picked up the quill and started to write. The words formed fluently before her heart's eye and as soon as they did, she transferred them onto the paper.

It was no big matter. Just a letter. Short and simple, explaining the core of things which stood between them. Just a letter, _nothing more_.

* * *

"Dixon!"

The elderly servant came up the flight of stairs with a worried look in her eye.

"What's the matter miss?" she asked, noticing the slight blush adorning her charge's countenance. "Are ye unwell?"

"No, nothing of that sort..." assured Margaret, her hands locked firmly over a rectangular-shaped object.

She took a small, steadying breath before asking:

"Dixon, could you deliver this to Mr. Thornton? Today, if possible?"

The elderly woman raised an eyebrow.

"Mr. Thornton?" she inquired "What would he want that for, miss?"

Margaret held out the book to Dixon, her hands still shaking slightly.

"Nothing really. I... I just thought father would've liked him to have it, that is all..."

Taking the volume in her wrinkled hands, the old servant opened it on the first page. A small piece of paper caught her attention. It read:

_Dear Sir, please accept the book that I send to you with this note. _

_It belonged to my father, and I hope it shall be a keepsake after your friendship with him._

_Sincerely,_

_Margaret Hale_

'All good and proper' she thought, smiling with pride inwardly, but out loud she said:

"I'll go there right away, miss." With that, she turned and started walking down the stairs.

"Thank you Dixon" Margaret breathed. "And please be careful with it!" she called after Dixon, who was already one storey lower. The feverish look on the young lady's face made the elderly servant uneasy with worry.

"Rest now, miss; Dixon will take care of everything!" she called back, disappearing behind another staircase, just where an old wooden cupboard stood.

But what she failed to see, was a small envelope which had fallen out of the book and slid lightly like a feather underneath the old piece of furniture.

* * *

Mr. Thornton sat still and quiet in his office. The night was dark; shadows crept out from behind closed doors, ever haunting him. Why they decided to take shape of a certain beautiful woman, he could not tell.

A sliver of moonlight fell onto an open book and a small note, which bore cold, polite greetings, written in a handwriting he had promised to keep in his mind forever.

There was never anything that wonderful, angelic woman could feel towards a rough northerner like him. The one that (_by heaven's law!_) should've been _his_, had chosen another man. John Thornton's heart contracted with pain as another Margaret-shaped shadow passed his mind.

"She does not love me." He whispered hoarsely, biting back a shivering sigh.

_She does not love me._

* * *

**_Disclaimer: I don't own 'North and South'. The book's too well-written to be mine anyway._**


	4. Chapter 4: Priceless time

_Place me like a seal over your heart,_

_Like a seal on your arm;_

_For love is as strong as death,_

_Its ardor unyielding as the grave._

_It burns like blazing fire,_

_Like a mighty flame._

_Many waters cannot quench love;_

_Rivers cannot wash it away._

(Song of Songs 8: 6-7)

* * *

"So you are going."

Margaret turned to see a tall figure standing in the doorway. He was clad in black – a reminder of his attendance to her father's funeral; death's grim shadow still loomed in the blue stealth of his eyes.

"Yes" she answered, the recent letter appearing in her mind. "Tomorrow."

"This evening my son-in-law is coming to escort us back to London" Aunt Shaw chimed in.

Mr. Thornton turned away, suddenly becoming absorbed by an unopened letter that lay on the table. Margaret's heart grew cold. _It wasn't civil to act in such a way. _She caught a glimpse of his hand as he opened the neat envelope, crumpling the paper and keeping himself from tearing at the contents. _Maybe he received ill news of the factory?_

But Margaret knew that couldn't have been the case. Her gaze dropped to the floor, swelling with the sadness of unshed tears.

_So he despised her_. The letter had done that much, and now her reputation was worse than before. The one-time deceit stained her image, branding her a liar, someone unworthy of sympathy or trust. At the bottom of her soul she feared it would come to this, but now at least her conscience was clear.

"_And may that one thorn teach you, that it is foul and unjust to lie_" she reprimanded herself silently.

John Thornton remained unmoving until all good-byes had been said: he then turned, and lead Mrs. Shaw downstairs just as the good manners required.

Margaret found herself standing next to him while they waited for the carriage. Not one word escaped him, not even a single look. She knew both of them were now thinking about _that day_. The day when everything turned upside down, and all sympathy he might've felt for her was lost. She swallowed back the sorrow it awoke in her heart.

When the carriage arrived, he held the door open for her. She wanted to thank him, but no words could leave her suddenly dry throat. He refused to look at her, as if she weren't really there. _Was even a simple 'good-bye' too much for his self-righteousness to bear?_

Upon climbing inside after Aunt Shaw, she felt tiny crisps of snow beginning to fall from the clouded sky. The streets of Milton would be white and clean by the time she drives through them for the last time.

"We must get you to London as soon as possible" Aunt Shaw huffed, wrapping herself tighter in the black, Indian shawl. "You've had to endure too much pain in this place."

Margaret rested her head against the faded pillows, trying to force memories of the past two years from her weary mind. But one sentence kept coming back to her still, and she wasn't sure where it had come from, nor what its meaning bore...

_Look back. Look back at me._

* * *

The sky was beginning to grow dark. Wisps of cold mist tangled with the smoke that rose from the countless factories, dancing in the wild, northern wind.

Not long after sunset John Thornton decided he could do no more of his work in his present state of mind. Shadows of the woman he loved haunted him no more – it was now an image of her pale features, and eyes that he'd never see again. They were mesmerizing, especially when she disagreed with someone; they lit up then, changing from clear blue to almost gray.

"_She'll be gone by tomorrow evening" _he thought grimly, letting the doubts resurface in his conscious.

Would she forget?

Could _he_?

Mr. Thornton stood at the brow of the hill overlooking Milton, his black steed walking nearby in the snow. It's been many days since he'd last gone riding. It soothed him, helped to set his thoughts in order again... he needed that now more than ever.

"Ebron!" He soon felt the animal nudging his shoulder with its nose. Reaching for the horse's reins, he looked once more at the unnaturally quiet city. A shadow of a smile passed his lips.

"Enough for today, don't you think?" he murmured, skillfully mounting his steed. "It's nearly nightfall and we'd better-"

John failed to complete the sentence as his eyes fell upon a familiar house, leaning over a cobbled street far in the distance. The_ former_ house of Margaret Hale.

Suddenly his famed composure failed him, giving voice to his passionate heart.

The long-buried hope roused within his chest, a feeling that he might still... that she may be... that not _everything_ is lost.

He had to see her,_ had to_ hear her voice... One last time.

With that decision in mind, he spurred Ebron into a gallop, soon disappearing into the misty twilight.

* * *

The streets were as crowded as ever, but an unusual silence hung in the air.

Mr. Thornton dismounted his horse just around the corner of the Hales' house, not bothering to tether it anywhere. Ebron was an intelligent beast - if not always obedient – and it was quite safe to leave him to himself.

John rounded the corner, ignorant of the queer looks the commoners bestowed upon him. He must've looked like the devil by now, with his icy eyes alight and raven-black hair a complete mess. But John Thornton didn't care.

With a few final steps, he stood on the doorstep and knocked three times on the door. No one answered. He knocked again, anxiety gripping his heart now that he'd cooled off a little. At last he took a few steps back, looking up, hoping to see someone –anyone – in the dust-covered windows.

But there were no lights reflecting in the translucent glass, no voices of servants calling from within. The building seemed lifeless and empty as it loomed menacingly over Mr. Thornton.

"They're gone, sir."

He blinked, looking around for the owner of the small voice. A skinny, mouse-like girl stood at the bottom of the front steps. Mr. Thornton remembered seeing her once or twice in Marlborough, but couldn't quite recall her name.

"Why?" he managed to ask, still breathless from the wild ride.

"They said Miss Hale's aunt decided not to delay the journey b'cause of Miss Hale's health" the girl informed him sadly. "They set off not long ago, sir"

"When exactly?"

"Not more than two hours ago, sir" she answered. "Beggin' yer pardon sir, I'll better go now if ye don't need anything more" the girl added, before scurrying off in another direction to get away from the cold, evening air.

The man barely noticed her absence. A deathly pallor crept into his features just as his heart sank to the bottomless depth of despair.

_Gone. _

The word sounded gravely like a funeral bell; tasted bitterer than dust.

_Gone_. He lost her... yet again.

* * *

**_Disclaimer: I don't own 'North and South'. The book's too well-written to be mine anyway._**

**_Thank you all for wonderful feedback. Please drop a review if your wish is such :)  
_**

**___PS: Ebron is a Hebraic name and means "alliance"_**


	5. Chapter 5: Afternoon hearts

_When you rest your hand over mine,_

_And a sweet balm of peace embraces me,_

_It seems, that a dream will end my life;_

_But a lively heartbeat awakens me,_

_Asking in a voice so clear:_

_Is this love? Or is this simple friendship...?_

_Adam Mickiewicz, 1823_

* * *

"Is Margaret an heiress now?"

Edith's excited whisper tore through the afternoon silence of the living room. London's lazy atmosphere peered in through the windows along with the warm, June sun; she and her husband sat in the lavish room, resting after a tiring day... of doing perfectly nothing.

"You shouldn't ask such a thing, love! It isn't proper" Captain Lennox replied, setting down his teacup.

Edith's pretty features didn't show a slightest hint of shame.

"But she is, is she not?" her pleasant voice became more mysterious. "I hear Mr. Bell has left her a small fortune, and she's now in possession of... well, I don't exactly know _how_ _much_, but it must be quite a lot. Mr. Bell was such an agreeable gentleman, I've always said so!"

Edith rested her hand on the table, the look of joy in her charming blue eyes.

"Can you imagine? _Our_ Margaret!"

"I wonder if she'll decide to leave us now" said her husband, opening the morning paper which he didn't have the time to read before. The rosy color of Edith's cheeks faded slightly.

"Leave us–my dearest, do not say such things! Our Margaret would never-"

The main door closed with a bang. Edith's hand stilled, halfway to her teacup.

A second later a servant came in and said without a further explanation:

"She is gone, miss! She's gone!"

"_Who_'s gone, Lily?" asked Edith, feeling that she already knew the answer.

"Our Miss Margaret! She's gone out of the house just now!" cried the serving-maid. "And she- she asked to be left alone."

* * *

_Alone._

That's how he felt in this city of polished perfection.

Well-dressed people walked leisurely in the streets, looking as if they had nothing useful to do. Unnatural smiles appeared on their porcelain faces when they met their acquaintances – and enemies -, the layers of expensive barriers covering their true feelings and intentions.

'_The art of deception_' Mr. Thornton thought sourly. '_A game with no winners._'

He was sitting in the least-visited corner of one of London's parks; the shade of tall, silent oaks – his only company. As the minutes passed by, he wondered what in the world brought him to this place. Taking a break from all the formalities seemed a good idea two hours ago, but... he had forgotten how this southern laziness irritated him.

Why did everyone here fail to see beyond one's outer shell?

'_No_' he said to himself with a thin smile. '_Not _everyone.'

His eyes wandered from one alley to another, searching for something - _anything_ to occupy his mind with. A flash of color caught his eye; he snorted inwardly as a group of young, gaudily dressed ladies passed the nearest fountain, gossiping noisily about something. If he turned away at that moment, he might've missed it: A single figure clad in darker shades.

She was walking a few steps behind the other ladies, holding a book in her delicate hands; a look of weariness reflecting in her countenance.

Mr. Thornton's heart leapt in his chest at the sight, his mind and thoughts only a step behind.

_Four months._

Four months he had not seen her – every cell of his being starved for her every hour of that time. She was like a dream, appearing in the early hours of the morning - so vivid and beautiful, that every time he seemed to die and come back to life at her feet.

And now she appeared before him on a June afternoon, like a ghost, a mocking shadow. The stealth of his eyes melted into a crystal blue of the sky as he observed her movements - the very _Margaret _way of walking, graceful as if she was born a true queen.

Margaret turned into another alley, walking away from the colorful group: A few more steps and she'll be out of his sight.

He stood up suddenly, unable to bear the thought of losing this precious sight once more.

"Miss Hale!"

At first is seemed as though she hadn't heard him. But a moment later she turned back, the book in her hands no longer the subject of interest.

Slowly, as if disbelievingly, her gaze came to rest on his countenance and their eyes met.

John Thornton could see – even from such a distance – the diversity of feelings behind those beautiful irises: great amount of weariness, sadness and pain, tinged with disappointment. He had to force himself to stand still, while his heart wished only to bring her closer, so close that they could never be separated again...

And then Margaret made a decision. He saw the soft movement of her dress as she made a step... was it to come closer, or to walk away?

_One step_. It was all it took to let the Heavens resound with the song of two strong, passionate hearts.

* * *

**_There is a second part to this chapter, don't worry ;) Thanks for the wonderful feedback!_**

**_Disclaimer: I don't own 'North and South'. The book's too well-written to be mine anyway._**


	6. Chapter 6: Our ways meet

For a moment Margaret couldn't believe her eyes.

Was that the tall, proud Milton man whose sight she's longed for over the past months? Or was the day's fatigue playing tricks on her mind?

"Miss Hale!"

No. The afternoon sun might've deceived her eyes, but the deep baritone was unmistakable.

_It was him after all._

"Mr. Thornton!" she whispered, and then repeated, louder. "I- I didn't expect to see you here."

He couldn't suppress a smile as he made a few steps towards her.

"Nor I you."

Before she knew it, Margaret was walking to meet him, her heart racing against her will. She quickly schooled her expression into one of polite interest, the light blush on her cheeks the only evidence of her inner turmoil.

"What brings you to London, sir?" she asked upon reaching the place where he stood. "Is all well back in Milton?" her voice trembled almost imperceptibly. She knew it wasn't. Anyone could read the terrible truth from the man's eyes.

"So you haven't heard" his words were bitterer now, eyes quickly losing their former brightness. He stood up straight, as if trying to contradict the worries weighing him down; the cares he kept fighting against every day.

"I've come to London to take care of the last formalities concerning Marlborough. I had to close it a few days ago, Miss Hale. The mill is no more."

Margaret didn't know where to look.

"I am sorry to hear that" she said quietly. The work of his life. He put his heart into it, and now it lay crumbled at his feet. She couldn't bear to look him in the eye, for she knew what she would see: fortune's cruel laughter reflecting in his dimmed irises.

"Don't be" he replied. "It is the way of this world: some of us must fall."

The words might've been cold and his voice steady, but Margaret knew that it was a great effort for him to speak in such a casual way. Her heart went out to him along with her compassionate spirit, wanting to help; to somehow bring happiness back into that stealthy soul.

When she looked at the book she held in her hands – a present she received from the late Mr. Bell - a thought suddenly dawned on her: maybe there was something she could do to help. Would he forgive her then? Would she gain respect in his eyes?

"But what if..." she found herself saying, a blush immediately blossoming on her cheeks. "...What if there was a way to- to bring Marlborough back into the market?"

Mr. Thornton's brow knitted together in slight confusion.

"Miss Hale...?"

She took a quick glance at him, wondering how to voice her sudden idea.

"There is... I mean there are... oh, I wish I had Henry here to help me explain..." the last part was said quietly as if directed to herself, but her companion heard it nonetheless.

"You don't need him to help you explain" he said, a bit too harshly, upon hearing Henry's name. He motioned to the bench he was previously resting on, and Margaret found herself being led gently – and yet firmly - in that direction.

When they were seated, she finally managed to look up at him – though it wasn't for long.

"Well, as you might know..." she began, tightening her grip on the small book "Mr. Bell... passed away unexpectedly only a few days ago, leaving me in quite a... troublesome situation."

Mr. Thornton's eyes traced her features, while the rest of him tensed, trying to fight the waves of tenderness and listen to what the woman was saying at the same time.

"He -he's left me some fifteen thousand pounds and I- I have no idea how to put them to a good use..."

Margaret's words were intent on escaping her unchecked under Mr. Thornton's loving gaze.

"...Now, what I think might be a good idea - for both of us, sir, if you understand – is for me to give you– to _invest_ that money in the mill, to help it back into business. Don't get me wrong, I _would_ demand payment someday, but not until you– not until Marlborough's welfare is secure..."

Margaret looked up. She suddenly found herself very close to Mr. Thornton - much closer than all rules of propriety would allow. His clear, sapphire eyes kept her locked in place, while her mind reasoned with the heart that beat wildly in her chest.

"So you see... what I'm offering you is only a business matter..." she stammered out. "You'd not be obliged to me in any way... In fact, I think that I would be the one to benefit from this..."

A warm, trembling hand reached out for her own, enclosing it in an uncertain grip.

"...arrangement."

She tried to fight for the last shreds of common sense, but they were lost now, lost to this man, to the only one who possessed her heart and thoughts...

"_Margaret_"

It was a question as much as a quiet plea; all hope of the world enclosed in that one whisper. She shuddered, despite the warmth of the June afternoon.

"Margaret... be careful, for I am close to considering you as _mine..."_

She only shut her eyes, wishing away the tears that threatened to fall.

"_Margaret?_"

* * *

The answer he received was more that his poor, wounded heart could bear; it nearly leapt out of his chest when the woman he loved – the woman he would've followed to the ends of the earth – raised his hand to her mouth and kissed it. He soon felt the warm wetness of her tears as they slipped down her rosy cheeks.

He leaned in closer, having to restrain the passion that the simple gesture awoke in his heart, and brushed his lips against hers. His other hand came to entangle itself in her auburn hair, the warmth of the sun caressing his roughened skin. Gently, he kissed her again, letting all of his affection pour into the kiss. He pulled her into a tight embrace, afraid that she'll slip away from him – like a shadow or a dream. A shivering sigh escaped Margaret, as their lips collided with more and more passion each time.

When they finally parted, she managed to breathe:

"Mr. Thornton, I'm not good enough-"

"Not good enough?!" he exclaimed, catching his breath. "Do not dare to joke about my belief that I don't deserve you!"

She smiled through her tears, which now flew freely down her countenance. Her trembling ceased in the warmth of his embrace; all doubts and worries melting under that affectionate gaze.

"The love I have for you will not cease. Not for all bad fortune of the world." he whispered into her hair.

"It is good to hear" she said, resting her head on his arm. "For I am afraid we have yet to face that ill fortune"

Mr. Thornton's laugh was a deep rumble, his words a balm for Margaret's wearied soul.

"In my arms I now hold God's most precious gift. Let trials come: I do not fear them anymore."

* * *

That very afternoon Mr. Thornton asked Margaret to become his wife and was – with all her heart – accepted.

They had to face the heated protests of Aunt Shaw and a few other people before all arrangements were made. In the end, everyone had to congratulate Miss Hale for her choice of a husband. '_A very agreeable gentleman, I've always said so!_' was her cousin's most frequent remark in the matter.

The wedding took place soon afterwards, in the beginning of a warm, sun-filled August. The newlyweds came to live back in Milton (how they managed to convince Aunt Shaw to let Margaret live there – no one really knew). Even Mrs. Thornton accepted and – with time – came to love her new daughter-in-law.

And what of Margaret?

Well, she was as happy as a woman could be, fighting against the adversities at her husband's side, and reveling in their mutual victories afterwards.

The letter she wrote to Mr. Thornton was found and opened several years later, by the kind and reasonable Mercy Hope Thornton, eldest of the three children born to John and Margaret.

'_So it wasn't all in vain?' one may ask._

'_No. Not a shred of their pain, not even one tear' a poet will answer. _

'_Besides, it has brought them together, has it not?' a practical person might add. _

_Yes. And together they shall stay._

**_THE END_**

* * *

**A/N:** **It was a real pleasure to write this piece: Thank you all for your wonderful support! I wish to thank: LadyForrest, SnowNoWhite, Lady Legend-Maker, Lythande1972, NoManArmy, LostInWonderland72, UKReader, TolkienGirl, LittleBeth-S, Regina Moreira and all of the anonymous reviewers. Thank you so much and if you have the time, please check my second story on fanfiction (it's called _'When I sleep'_) :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'North and South'. The book's too well-written to be mine anyway.**


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